W. F. McNAMARA 




Class _ 
Book 
Copyright N?_ 




COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT; 



Wayside Leaves 



Wayside Leaves 



By 

W. F. McNAMARA 



Presque Isle, Maine 
1913 



"76 3 ^ ? * 



o 
o 



Copyright 1913 

By W. F. McNAMARA 

Set up and printed December, 1913 



The MASON-HENRY Press 
Syracuse, N. Y. 



©CI.A358759 



2DeDicatt& 

To 
The Memory of My Mother 



PREFACE 

These little verses have, for the most part, 
been written in the brief intervals of leisure not 
too common in the life of a country doctor; 
therefore they lack much. If, however, they 
awaken a modicum of interest in those intimate 
friends for whom they have been gathered in 
the present form, and give to these even a pass- 
ing pleasure, then the purpose of this little book 
will have been fulfilled. 

W. F. M. 



A FOREWORD 

I suppose that, being contemporary deities on 
the staff of Chief Jupiter, Old Doc Esculapius 
and Apollo chummed around more or less — they 
must have done so. As a matter of fact, Old 
Doc Esculapius must have been in snucks with 
the whole bunch on high Olympus. He had a 
cinch on all the practice there — no other physi- 
cian admitted. Apollo was god of poetry, to- 
gether with the side line of furnishing daylight, 
and undoubtedly, when the Old Doc called in to 
dose him up a little, Apollo used to twang his 
lyre and hum over one or two of his late com- 
positions. We read that there was always a 
great deal of jealousy on Olympus among the 
gods and goddesses. It is not recorded, so I 
discover after exhaustive research, that Old Doc 
ever wrote any poetry. Of course, nobody 
knows. He may have scribbled off bits now 
and then, after noting what a lot of fun Apollo 
was getting out of the thing. But he never 



FOREWORD 

gave out anything that has come down to us — 
afraid of offending Apollo, probably ! They 
were terribly strict about departments on Olym- 
pus. However, I'm wagering he did write some 
poetry. He was a wise Old Doc. There's 
nothing quite like writing poetry to take your 
mind off your own troubles and the troubles of 
other folks. And a physician is obliged to lug 
a big burden of the troubles of other folks. For 
all I know, doctors may hide away a lot of 
poetry in the prescriptions they write. Some- 
times I have paused in a frantic dash from a 
doctor to a druggist and have studied the pre- 
scription, slantways, crossways and upside down, 
wondering what it meant. I never found any 
poetry yet, but a layman never can tell — it may 
have been there in disguise. 

A while ago, my old friend, Doctor McNa- 
mara, after exhibiting for some time the furtive 
look of the hunted hare, called me far enough 
aside so that no whisper would reaich the outside 
world, shut the door, pulled down the curtains, 
plugged the telephone with a gob of paper and 
admitted that he had been writing poetry. 
When I hastened to reveal to him my personal 



FOREWORD 

convictions in regard to the manner in which 
Old Doc Esculapius diverted himself in his spare 
moments, he seemed to be somewhat relieved. 
But when I told him that I had written poetry, 
myself, he stated that he had read some of it 
and promptly relapsed into a state of profound 
mental depression. The only way in which I 
could get his pulse and temperature back to 
normal was to take my oath that I would write 
no more. This announcement will also relieve 
the public generally, I believe. It is nice for 
one to feel that by a little self-denial one can 
make the world happier. As a matter of fact, 
after long and painstaking examination of my 
products, I find that I have never written any 
real poetry. Folks had often told me that I 
never had, but having been brought up not to 
believe everything I heard I was a long time 
being convinced. Judge George H. Smith was 
the first one who opened my eyes to the truth — 
after he had remained silent as long as human 
nature would allow. He was delicate in the 
matter, but he was judicial and firm. His sin- 
cerity impressed me. I looked up my poetry 
product and found he was right. I should have 



FOREWORD 

taken his word in the first place. George is al- 
ways right. But what has all this got to do 
with a foreword for a volume of my friend 
McNamara's poetry? Only this — I'm drawing 
attention to the fact that there are men who can 
put real taste, feeling, poetic thought and tender 
sentiment into rhymed efforts. 

The men who do best at this are those honest 
souls who make writing a pastime instead of a 
vocation. They can nurse the germ of an idea 
until it becomes a gem. Then they can, with 
conscientious and loving care, weave the idea into 
verse. They are not obliged to splatter ink like 
the dickens for to get a living. 

They say that the best critic of literary efforts 
is the person who can not do the trick himself 
in the writing line. I cannot write good poetry, 
but I reckon I know poetry when I see it. I'm 
sure that the reader who handles this little vol- 
ume will agree with me that my friend, the doc- 
tor, has put some mighty pretty fancies into 
delicious verse — and that makes real poetry. I 
am told that the book is designed for his personal 
friends. That will ensure a big edition. I 
hope he will prescribe this book in acute cases 



FOREWORD 

where patients have got too prosaic, have for- 
gotten that life is full of poetry, have dumped 
themselves in the doldrums. This is my first 
experience in writing a preface for any book. 
The discriminating reader has probably arrived 
at that conclusion already. But if the introduc- 
tion doesn't taste good, hurry and take a sip of 
the doctor's limpid and refreshing verse — you'll 
forget the introduction. I'm glad that there are 
busy men who are willing to sit down and give 
the world their best thoughts, as Dr. McNamara 
has done in this volume. I join my felicitations 
to those of his other friends because these poems 
have been collected and are now preserved for 
the enjoyment of the judicious. 

Sincerely 

Holman Day 

Portland, Maine, 1913. 



CONTENTS 

An Apology I 

To the Wind 4 

To a Watcher 6 

Confession 7 

At Nightfall 8 

A Silence 11 

O, If I Were the Breeze of Ev'n 12 

A Song 14 

Song 16 

Memories 18 

A Nook 20 

In Memory 22 

Chick-a-dee 24 

A Hammock Song 26 

Serenade 27 

In Return for Some Wild Flowers 28 

The Man from the North 31 

The Ride 34 

Prospection 36 

A Fragment 37 

Loneliness 38 

Song 39 

In May 40 

A Longing 42 



Roses 43 

At Walden Pond 45 

To a Daisy 47 

Why? 48 

A Knight of Labor 49 

Deal Gently, Love 51 

On the Charles River 52 

When Locusts Sing 54 

A Memory 55 

Little Girl 57 

My Chum 59 

An Inscription 61 

Remissness 63 

Song 65 

Three Score 66 

In Memoriam 67 

On a Mountain Top 69 

A Christmas Greeting 70 

" Little Frowzy" 71 

The Lost Chord 74 

A Summer's Day 75 

Written on a Photograph 77 

In a Friend's Album 78 

The Way of It 79 

Noon in a Meadow 81 

Drifting 83 

A Memory 85 

To a Dandelion Found in November 86 

"A Written Apology" 88 



AN APOLOGY 

Not with the muse of Merrimac-side, 
Dear Friend, my humble lays are sung; 
Their rhythm lacks the sunny glide 
Of his sweet lays, whose eventide 
Gives glimpses through far gates wide open 
flung. 

Our Ossipees and Bear Camps flow 
Through sylvan valleys green and still; 
And when the days of summer go, 
I watch as radiant sunsets glow 
As our loved poet saw on Carrol's Hill. 

But not with his anointed eyes 

The hidden loveliness I see; 

And reading oft with glad surprise 

What he perceived in common guise, 

I pray that such sweet sense might quicken me. 



AN APOLOGY 

But vain my prayer, for none may trace 
Unerringly the hidden thought 
That paints the grim rock's rugged face, 
Or glows beyond in cloud-swept space, 
Save him in nature's inner temple taught. 

Not mine the poet's graceful thought; 

My pleasing lines are poor and few, 

If with a love as tender wrought 

As his who richer themes has brought 

To fall on hearts as falls the grateful dew. 

And yet I hold the common things 

Are so much sweeter than we know, 

That his is no mean task who sings 

Of these, and to the fireside brings 

Some homely bloom from summers long ago. 

And so I wander on my way, — 
A child lost on south-sloping banks; 
Now listening to some warbler's lay, 
Now plucking some emblossomed spray, 
And singing as I go my grateful thanks. 



AN APOLOGY 



And grateful thanks are yours, dear friend, 

For all your well-remembered praise; 

And trusting friendliness will lend 

Its favor to your eyes, I send, 

Half fearfully, my unpretending lays. 



TO THE WIND 

O wind that 'round my lonely eaves 
Like some bereaved one sobs and grieves 

Sad and forlorn, 
Mourn you that summer roses die, 
And in their perfumed sweetness lie 

By rude feet torn? 

The fairest rose has but its day; 
Like love it passes soon away 

'Neath frosty blast; 
Nor love nor roses have a part 
In winter's stern and sullen heart 

But wither fast. 

Then why with doleful notes repine 
When to the naked tree the vine 

Clings lifelessly? 
Your lips have kissed the blushing rose, 
And mine the cheek whose carmine glows 

Not now for me. 



TO THE WIND 

So should we both be well content 
With what the summer haply sent, 

Though lost so soon ; 
For in this changeful world of ours 
It is not always love and flowers, 

Not always June ! 



TO A WATCHER 

Cuddle your head on your downy little pillow ; 

Whisper to your fancies: "Go away!" 
For the night's well done with its watching and 
its waiting, 

And soon across the east will break the day. 
Cuddle your head and close your dark-fringed 
eyelids, 

Heavy with the call of blessed sleep; 
And may God's angels softly hover round you, 

And vigils like your own sweet watches keep. 

Cuddle your head with its crown of dusky 
splendor 
In the drowsy lap of pleasant dreams; 
Wander no more by Mara's bitter waters; 

Leave them for the sweet of crystal streams. 
Sleep, sweetly sleep 'till the promise of the mor- 
row 
Floods the earth again with mellow gold; 
Till the sorrow, and the loss, and the sound of 
hopeless weeping 
Are as sagas in the musty tomes of old. 



CONFESSION 

Sometimes I think I have forgot, 

And see again life's common things, 
Pleasing myself with the sane thought 

That time to all requital brings. 
Then floods of mem'ry barriers break 

That have denied their will so long, 
And whelm me with fierce tides that shake 

Foundations I had deemed so strong. 
And in that moment of defeat 

My weakness fills me with sick dread; 
For all I build seems incomplete, 

And weary years are still ahead. 
Yet maybe somewhere in those years 

I may achieve forgetfulness, 
Or learn the sanctity of tears, 

And find that sorrow, too, may bless. 



AT NIGHTFALL 

The ruddy light has failed the western sky, 
And shadows stretch across the dewy wold; 

Now is the time each little lamb should lie 
Securely sheltered in the drowsy fold. 

And this the time when downy wings, untried, 
Should snuggle in the home nest happily, 

For all the world without is dark and wide, 
And mother wings o'er brood so tenderly. 

And now when all the seaward meadows fill 
With purple dusk and fireflies' golden gleams, 

The children's merry voices clear and shrill, 
Arouse me from my book or quiet dreams. 

I hear them romping gaily to and fro, 
At blind-man's-buff or other noisy game; 

Each happy laugh and merry shout I know, 
And tenderly I breathe each roysterer's name. 



AT NIGHTFALL 

And one dear name, I breathe it o'er and o'er, 
More tenderly, much more, than all the rest; 

Perhaps it is because I hear no more 
His childish treble that I love it best. 

And how I miss the roguish little face; 

The laughing eyes with sunny hair o'er blown; 
The clasp of dimpled hands; the wistful grace 

Of tempting lips upreached to meet my own ! 

The future's hidden page I cannot read; 

Nor wisely say 'twere better thus, or so; 
What cruel thorns had made his dear feet bleed 

Still further on life's way I do not know. 

But this I know: That when he went away, 
And on his face they shut the sodden door, 

A something left the radiance of the day 
And starlit eve that came to them no more. 

And oft at night when downy pillows hold 
Wee, drowsy heads, so weary grown with play, 

I softly kneel and kiss their shining gold, 
And breathe a prayer for him who is away. 



AT NIGHTFALL 

He needs no prayer of mine, I know, 

In that fair land where many mansions be, 

But still I pray and love to think it so — 
A message to my little boy from me. 



A SILENCE 

There's a silence I love, — when the thrush's note 
Dies softly and sweet in his dainty throat, 
When mother thrush snugly her warm wing folds 
O'er the downy treasure the wee nest holds, — 
A silence so deep and so perfect, it seems 
As if the hush from the land of dreams 
Had fallen down from that far-off sphere 
On meadow, and hill-top, and forest here. 
And then the shadows grow long and deep, 
And wee, wild things lie down to sleep, 
While over them all, so lonely and high, 
The pale stars wink in the silent sky. 
Then one by one where the highway leads 
By brooding forests and billowy meads 
The house lights waver, and dim, and die, 
Till only the lamp of the firefly, 
Swung to and fro in the gathering night, 
The wanderer cheers with its friendly light. 
The homely noises that filled the day, — 
Sounds of labor and children at play, — 
Are lost in the silence I love so well, 
And Peace shall bide till the morning bell. 



O, IF I WERE THE BREEZE OF EV'N? 

O, if I were the breeze of ev'n, 

I'd come to thee o'er land and sea; 

And stealing through thy lattice, I 

Would breathe my tender love for thee. 

I'd lift the tendrils of thy hair 

That cling around that brow of snow; 

And words I might not dare to speak, 
I'd whisper to thee sweet and low. 

I'd seal thy dark-fringed eyelids fast 
With love's own kisses shy and pure, 

And thou shouldst smile in happy dreams, 
In thy sweet innocence secure. 

I'd bring thee scents from dewy leas, 
From banks of thyme and mignonette, 

To give thee dreams more subtly sweet, 
And make thy waking gladder yet. 



O, IF I WERE THE BREEZE OF EV'N? 

Sweetheart ! Sweetheart ! thou art to me 

The dewy eve, the rosy morn, 
The soul of beauty and of grace, 

And all the fond heart dwells upon ! 

O, if I were the breeze of ev'n, 
I'd come to thee o'er land or sea; 

For life is such a cheerless thing 
Away from thee, away from thee ! 



13 



A SONG 



A bit of melody lilted low, 
Woven with violets dewy-sweet, 
Trembling up through the warm night rain, 
To my casement comes the soft refrain 
From some careless passer along the street. 



The singer has gone into the night, 
But his lingering notes are left behind, 
To vibrate long through forgotten rooms 
Where have lain, neglected, the old-time blooms, 
Long-withered and out of mind. 



But the old, old gardens wake again 

At the touch of a new-born Spring; 

The violets nod 'neath the whispering trees, 

And bird songs float down the lazy breeze, 

And a song has won this thing! 



*4 



A SONG 

The night and the rain are all forgot 
In the dreams that I thought were past, 
And the olden sweetness thrills me through 
As in happy days that once I knew — 
Oh, if life would only last! 



If love and Spring would last alway, 

I'd hug them to my heart; 

Nor the bliss of heaven, nor saintly throngs, 

With throbbing harpstrings and mystic songs, 

Should woo me from them apart. 



15 



SONG 

When the summer days are gone, 

And no more in early morn 

I hear the swallows twitter 'neath the eaves, 

Olden memories will rise, 

And the sad tears fill my eyes, 

As I list the rustle of the dying leaves. 

Ah, 'tis vain, I know, to sigh 

For the happy days gone by, 

When the future holds so much that's bright for 

all; 
Yet my heart will cling for aye 
To the bright hours passed away, 
And be sad whene'er the leaves begin to fall. 

When the summer days are gone, 
And the locust winds his horn 
No more in sunny dingles all the day, 
By the little rippling stream 
Oft I sit and dream, and dream 



iG 



SONG 

Of the happy hours that long have passed away. 

Still the summers come and go, 

And the rippling waters flow, 

And the swallows build their nests against the 

wall; 
Yet my heart will cling for aye 
To the bright hours passed away, 
And be sad whene'er the leaves begin to fall. 



17 



MEMORIES 

When the breath of the summer is laden 

With the odor of new-mown hay, 
And up from the wind-rowed meadows 

Come the voices of children at play, 
When the heavy wains go slowly 

To the gray old barns on the hill, 
My memory, like the soft west wind, 

Goes wandering whither it will, 
Back through the fragrant meadows 

To the dear old long ago, 
Till the laugh of the merry children 

Seems the same that I used to know. 

Then vanish the homesick longing, 
And the hot tears born of pain, 

As in the warm lap of the summer 
I find my lost youth again. 

The selfsame larks seem singing 
High over the meadow-sweet; 



l8 



MEMORIES 

And it seems that the same lush grasses 

Entangle my dallying feet, 
As when in my happy boyhood 

I frolicked these meadows o'er, 
And tumbled the scented wind-rows 

With the boys that are here no more. 

Somewhere in the world they are faring — 

The boys that I used to know — 
And I wonder today if their mem'ries 

Turn back to our long ago; 
And whether their bays in a moment 

They would not tread under their feet 
For the rollicking days in the meadows 

When life was so careless and sweet? 



19 



A NOOK 

I know a nook, a sunny nook 

That hides in a dark old wood, 
Where the fern fronds saucily nod to the brook, 
And the rabbit pauses with timid look, 

And strut the partridge's brood. 

And I love it well when violets wake, 

For the merry thrushes then 
Their rarest notes in the soft air shake, 
And the swelling buds into leafage break, 

When the violets wake again. 

And pleasant it is when summer noons 

On the hills lie fast asleep, 
With green leaves whispering their tremulous 

runes, 
And the warm air full of sounds — the tunes, 

Mayhap, of fays who keep — 



A NOOK 

'Tis said by the old folk everywhere, — 

Themselves from mortal sight; 
But days like this are so wondrous fair 
That they float around on enchanted air, 
Nor wait for the secret night. 

The cardinal lifts his fire-plumed head, 

By the lisping streamlet's side, 
When the earlier days of summer are fled, 
And the scattered petals of roses red 
Lie low in their perfumed pride. 

The locust whirs in the oak's tall crest; 

The night mists earlier fall; 
The provident squirrel fills his nest; 
And the rabbit doffs his summer vest; 

Then winds through the bare trees call. 

So the days in this nook of mine steal on 

With never a clanging bell 
To herald their birth in the rosy dawn, 
Or, when one softly away has gone, 

To dolefully peal its knell. 



IN MEMORY 

To My Mother 

Cool shades descend on vale and hill, 
And one by one glad bird-songs cease, 

Till falls upon my heart at last 
The sweet tranquillity of peace. 

We stand apart now, Care and I, 
And the vexations that have set 

The day's rough path with thorns so sharp 
Almost their wounds seem bleeding yet. 

And I am tired tonight, so tired 

I feel my pulses' fevered beat 
Through all my wearied frame, but here, 

Lo ! here is rest, and rest is sweet. 

So thankfully I set aside 

My pilgrim staff, content to find 
A wayside fount at close of day, 

Where I my sandals may unbind. 



IN MEMORY 

And thou, sweet soul, whose feet have found 
The land of all wayfaring quest, 

How oft beside the evening fount 

Have thy tired feet found grateful rest 1 

And how I miss thee on the way ! 

Thy chansons ringing sweet and clear, 
Thy simple faith and childlike trust, 

That made the thorniest path grow dear. 

Thine was a soul that knew no fear; 

Thy faith the faith that martyrs crowned ; 
And wheresoe'er thy footsteps trod 

Life's choicest blessings clustered round. 

And yet I would not have thee back 
To walk terrestrial paths again, 

For all too oft the crown of thorns 

Did press thy brow with mortal pain. 

And thou art now, — I love to think, — 
Where all the blest immortals be; 

And that glad land is gladder yet, 

Dear Heart, I know, because of thee. 



23 



CHICK-A-DEE 

To Billie 

When dear robin redbreast 

Far away has flown, 
And the brown leaves lightly 

Here and there are blown, 
In the fragrant balsams 

List and you shall hear 
Such a tiny chanson, 

Low, and sweet, and clear. 

Chick-a-dee is singing 

Just to let you know 
He is back — the vagrant — 

From the fields of snow. 
Harbinger of North winds 

Blowing keen and strong, 
And of winter's rigors, 

Yet we love his song. 



24 



CHICK-A-DEE 

Plucky little fellow 

In his fluffy coat, 
With his jaunty black cap, 

And his cheery note ! 
Winter's chary bounty, 

Meager though it be, 
Seems to suit him fairly — 

Little Chick-a-dee. 



25 



A HAMMOCK SONG 

I wonder if tonight you lie 
Dreaming 'neath an alien sky, 
Swinging, swinging to and fro 
In your hammock's silken fold, 
Dreaming of the days of old, — 
Golden days of long ago? 

In your graceful, swaying nest, 

Does no thrill disturb your breast, 

As some thought of the dear past 

Wakes a memory of me; 

And of all that used to be 

In those days too sweet to last? 

Would some magic hand could turn 
Back to pages that still burn 
With love's ecstasy and pain, 
In life's book, and let us read 
All for which we vainly plead — 
All love's story once again ! 

26 



SERENADE 

O stars in yonder tranquil deeps, 
When the golden day is done, 

Send tender peace to her who sleeps — 
My darling one ! 

O roses blooming by the way, 
Wet with pearly drops of dew, 

Waft her your incense sweet I pray — 
My love so true ! 

Kind angels guard her through the night, 
With the care to angels known, 

And keep her safe till morning light — 
My own, my own ! 



27 



IN RETURN FOR SOME WILD 
FLOWERS 

To My Aunt 

Small need of my poor thanks have you, 

Dear friend, to show my gratitude 
For these wild flowers, wet with dew 
And sweet with fragrance which they drew 
From earth and air in the cool, pleasant wood. 

For well you know the love I bear 

Dim woodland haunts — the wild ravine, 
Dark-walled with pines, and still save where 
A stream slips downward stair by stair, 

And slumbrous nooks thick spread with softest 
green. 

And like a voice from these today 

Speak these wee flowers — your gift to me, 
Till as the child of yore I lay 
My heart on nature's heart and pray 
With childlike trust in all that is to be. 



28 



IN RETURN FOR WILD FLOWERS 

The burden of the weary years 

Off from my shoulders noiseless falls, 

And life its old, glad aspect wears, 

While memories of fruitless tears 

Fade in the sunny days your gift recalls. 

Again the south wind on my brow, 

Freshening, lifts with mute caress 
The boyish tresses waving low 
O'er eyes less thoughtful then than now, 
Though loving nature's handiwork no less. 

Beneath the beeches gnarled and old 

The brook's glad song again I hear; 
And once again my eyes behold 
At morn the mist-cloud, fold on fold, 

Roll backward, and the smiling hills appear. 

O, dear old friend, you little know 

How much into my lonely room 
Came with your flowers today, nor how, 
By streams of summer singing low 

My arid wastes are gladdening into bloom. 



29 



IN RETURN FOR WILD FLOWERS 

If wish of mine could make more blest 
Your humble lot, what should it be 
But that such gladness unexpressed 
As you have made today my guest, 
Might in your heart abide eternally. 



30 



THE MAN FROM THE NORTH 

One night like a jockey contesting a race 
A quaint little man with a jovial face, 
Dashed into the town at a rattling pace, 

With a six-reindeer team gaily prancing. 
"How lucky," he cried, "that I chanced to come 

down ! 
Why they're all fast asleep in this drowsy old 
town ! 
But a spree will soon set things a-dancing." 

Then he pursed up his lips and a whistle came 

out 
That brought down the north wind with rollick- 
ing rout; 
And the trees heard with fear his mad laughter 
and shout, 
And bowed low their heads as he passed them. 
Right onward he rushed in most terrible glee 
Till unsatisfied still with his maudlin spree, 
Chimneys, steeples and gables in his arms gath- 
ered he, 
And down to the earth rudely cast them. 

31 



THE MAN FROM THE NORTH 

In his bed the good man turned uneasily o'er, 
While his wife, sore affrighted, concluding her 

snore, 
First prayed, then scolded, then prayed once 
more 
To all the known saints for protection. 
All roused from their slumbers in fear looking 

forth, 
Exclaimed: " 'Tis the wicked old man from the 

North ; 
And little our lives and our houses are worth 
With the north wind at his mad direction!" 

The droll little man, when the north wind grew 

still, 
Blew a breath that froze hard every babbling rill, 
And fastened the wheel of the old village mill, 

Which for months had been merrily turning. 
Then he chuckled and said: "This will do for 

tonight ! 
What a lark there will be when each sluggardly 

wight 
With staring eyes greets the old town's sorry 

plight, 
And groans, each mad caper discerning!" 



32 



THE MAN FROM THE NORTH 

Ere morn like a youth with cheeks rosy red, 
The day up the steeps of the orient led, 
Ere Slumber arose from her sensuous bed, 

O'er the rime in the faint starlight glancing. 
And up the cold slopes of the northland there 

passed 
A queer little man with a voice like the blast, 
And a reindeer team dashing so gaily and fast 

Away through the night gaily prancing. 



33 



THE RIDE 

To My Little Chum 

Out on the road where the west wind calls 

To the outermost edge of the world, 
Toward the beckoning hills whose laughter falls 
In limpid streams o'er lichened walls, 
By cranny and chasm whirled. 

Out where the wild rose hedges grow 

By the side of the open way, 
Where the quivering larch cool shadows throw 
On the placid face of the pool below 

Through the long, bright summer day. 

Ours is the cool of the morning air, 

And the glint of the morning dew, 
With the song of gladness everywhere, 
And the subtle sense of all things fair, 
As if the earth were new. 



34 



THE RIDE 

And ours the languorous peace of noon, 

And the ebbing tide of light, 
From the zenith gold of radiant June 
To the slender bow of the nascent moon 
On the purple hills of night. 

And so we follow the lure of the wind, — 

The wind of the mighty West; 
And the shining leagues that lie behind, 
Or the miles that into the twilight wind, 
Oh, who knows which is best? 



3 5 



PROSPECTION 

Sunny and fair the shining slopes of morn 

Lie yet before us, happy-hearted friend; 
While dim and far, as if the reluctant dawn 

Still folds them, the blue hills ascend, 
Beyond whose far-seen summits winds a path 

Downward and ever downward where the 
bland, 
Cool breath of evening stirs the aftermath, — 

The sad, sweet herbage of the sunset land. 



36 



A FRAGMENT 

Honey bees among the clover, 

Swallows skimming in the sun, 
Fleecy cloudlets sailing over — 

Joy enough for anyone. 
Was there ever a day so perfect, 

Ever a day so all complete? 
Ring lily bells, ring fairy measures ! 

Sing, my heart, for life is sweet! 



37 



LONELINESS 

An ebbing tide — an outbound sail — 

A sombre twilit sea — 
And the sullen voice of the ruthless bar 

For my lonely heart and me 

The tide, impelled, sweeps to its home 

In the caverns of the deep; 
And seabirds haste their homing flight 

To nest and downy sleep; 

While I, alone on naked strand, 

See, through a mist of tears, 
The far, faint gleam of an out-bound sail, 

And the sadness of the years. 



38 



SONG 

Thou silver moon, whose tranquil rays 
Illume the sleeping earth tonight, 

Thou mindest me of happy long-gone days 
When life was pure and bright. 

When from my little cot at ev'n 

I watched with joy thy steadfast beams, 

And fancied them a shining path to heaven 
That still shone through my dreams. 

And still I love thy mellow light, 

Tho' youth and all its dreams are past, 

For seemest thou a friend of olden right, 
A friend so true and fast. 

So when the weary world is still, 
I keep my faithful tryst with thee; 

While at thy will, from silvered vale and hill 
Old days come back to me. 



39 



IN MAY 

Such wild, ecstatic madrigals the vagrant breeze 
Bears softly to my lattice in the fair, fresh 
morn, 
From strolling minstrels making merry in green 
trees, 
That truant sleep forsakes my pillow when the 
dawn 
Streaks the clear orient with its prophecy of day. 
And all within me thrills with life so glad and 
new, 
That prosy, uttered speech need tell me it is May 
No more than if I should see cowslips wet 
with dew 
In springing meadows lifting their bright faces 
up; 
Or shy, sweet violets nodding as the breeze 
goes by. 
Each feathery songster warbles as if his wee cup 
Were full of bliss so exquisite that he must die, 
Or pour it forth in quivering, bursting song 

4 o 



IN MAY 

To the glad world and to the brightening arch 
of sky, 
Which with the radiance of day shall glow ere 
long; 
And through harmonious burst and swell of 
minstrelsy 
The brook's light obligato runs, nor gay nor sad, 

But lending to the whole a sweet tranquillity 
Which else might seem almost too wildly glad. 



41 



A LONGING 

There is a place that's calling me, 

Insistently and low, 

To tangled woodland's leafy maze; 

And how I'd like to go 

Where birches stand in gleaming aisles, 

And in soft breezes shake 

Their glossy leaflets in the air 

Beside an inland lake. 

Far from the city's dust and din 

I'd lie supine and dream, 

And rest this tired heart of mine 

'Mid silences supreme. 

No whistles blow in this far place, 

No verberant bell awakes 

These mystic realms of solitude; 

And morbid care forsakes 

The weary brain when nature lays 

Her soft hand on the brow 

And whispers drowsy lullabies — 

O, how I'd like to go ! 

42 



ROSES 

Roses, roses, 

Darlings of regnant June, 
Lifting your fragrant faces 
In high and lowly places, 
Matchless in queenly graces, 
In the summer's plenilune. 

Roses, roses, 

Plebeians ne'er thou art, 

Humble blossoms never, 

But queens, — without endeavor,- 

Sovereigns sweet forever 

Of every loving heart. 

Roses, roses, 

I wonder if you've taught 
Her of your sweet compelling — 
Only tricked by spelling — 
While your wiles are telling 
A story that is naught? 



43 



ROSES 

Roses, roses, 

She, too, is wondrous fair, 
But in her changing guises 
Are such unwished surprises 
That all my shrewd surmises 
Leave me in deep despair. 



44 



AT WALDEN POND 

Pleasant it was that sunny summer afternoon 
Beneath the slumbrous pines in peace to lie, 

In grateful silence drinking in all June, 

From her rich store, gave earth, and air, and 
sky. 

Anon the west wind, from his cool retreat 
Amid the fastnesses of far blue hills, 

Shook from his wings a thousand odors sweet 
Such as rare June in hidden cells distils. 

And ever through dim, pleasant vistas shone, 
Like a pure jewel, the translucent lake, 

Girdled about with its gray-pebbled zone 

On whose worn marge the softest ripples 
brake. 

Here were the wilding bee, the solitary thrush, — 
Shy anchorite of shadow-peopled wood, — 

The social robin, in some sudden hush, 

Fluting his liquid notes athwart the solitude. 

45 



AT WALDEN POND 

And here, methought, that sweet soul still must 
dwell, 

Invisible, yet real as bird or tree, 
An ageless child midst things he loved so well, 

Feeling the hidden keys of nature's symphony. 

His was no zealot's rage nor miser's greed; 

He deemed no human soul in hazard dire; 
Each day's small bounty well sufficed his need, 

And freedom for his thought fed his desire. 

And his lone cairn in silence eloquent 

Stands here today. Each loving pilgrim lays 
On it a stone to prove his argument; 

And nature crowns her own with fragrant 
bays. 



4 6 



TO A DAISY 

For Billic 

Modest little daisy 
By the happy brook, 
Nodding to the breezes 
In your cosey nook ; 
All the golden sunshine 
In your cheery face, 
You are queen of blossoms 
In this pleasant place. 

Shining skies above you 
Smile all through the day, 
And soft shades enfold you 
When the sun's away; 
Happy little flower 
All your short life through, 
Would all little children 
Could be glad as you! 



47 



WHY? 

There are paths that seem to beckon (don't you 

know?) 
Down to vales where limpid waters softly flow; 

Where it seems the storm and stress 

Of the heart's unhappiness 
Might be left behind if we would only go. 

But somehow we plod along, with dogged tread, 
Over graves of early hopes now cold and dead, 

And the path leads higher, higher 

From the Valley of Desire, 
And there's not a soul that knows what lies ahead. 

So don't you think we'd better rest a little while 
Now and then along the dusty way, and smile 

At the dubious, scattered flowers 

On this chosen path of ours, 
Calling yet, maybe, for many a weary mile. 



4 8 



A KNIGHT OF LABOR 

There's a Knight of Labor I know right well ; 
I meet him oft in the flowery dell; 
And oft when the day is calm and still, 
I hear his song on the sunny hill. 

He wears no helmet, like knights of old, 
Nor ring at his heels the spurs of gold ; 
Yet a stout heart beats 'neath his doublet brown 
As e'er for a Launcelot won renown. 

A less pretentious fellow than he 
In his snuff-brown coat you seldom see, 
And his famous song should you list for aye, 
Will be but a drone as it is today. 

For my doughty Knight is a humble bee, 
Who boasts nor rank, nor pedigree, 
Nor spends his time in wondering why 
He wasn't born a butterfly. 



49 



A KNIGHT OF LABOR 

His is a humble part, 'tis true, 
But he does the work that is his to do, 
And he does it, too, so nobly and well 
That a precept lies in each waxen cell. 

And just for this the wisest sage, 
And the sweetest bard of every age, 
Have paid him tribute with tongue and pen, 
Till his name is famous among all men. 

And you who read my homely rhyme, 
Would you leave on the luminous scroll of time 
Your name in letters both bold and bright, 
A lesson learn from my humble Knight. 



50 



DEAL GENTLY, LOVE 

Deal gently, Love, — so short life's span 
From buoyant youth to worn out man, — 
So pitiful its burning tears, 
And futile hopes of brighter years 
And better years that never came, 
(But, en avant! 'tis in the game — ) 
Deal gently, Love. 

Deal gently, Love, no craven heart 

Begs thee withhold the sting and smart 

Of words that smite me as I tread 

A path with withered rose leaves spread; 

But, rather, give me kindly speech 

As comrades utter each to each — 

Deal gently, Love. 

Deal gently, Love, that when I feel 
Death's solemn stillness o'er me steal, 
I still can think of thee and say: 
"This one made glad a little way, 
And from her heart's rich store gave me 
Full measure of life's ecstasy" — 
Deal gently, Love. 

51 



ON THE CHARLES RIVER 

Our thought today drifts far away, 
Drifts far away, and lazily 
As thistledown o'er meadows brown 
In airy tufts floats wide and free. 

Beneath we feel the waters reel, 
And half as in a dream we hear 
The ripples low break from the prow 
In silvery cadence low and clear. 

No splashing oar awakes the shore, 
But noiselessly and swiftly, too, 
The gleaming blade by strong arms played 
Impels with ease our slight canoe. 

Round many a curve of green we swerve 
Which in the wave inverted gleams, 
With fringing trees and sunlit leas — 
A seeming paradise of dreams. 



5» 



ON THE CHARLES RIVER 

And so we ride the sun-kissed tide, 
Each with his fancies left alone, 
Save when in speech each shows to each 
How far his idle thought has flown. 

O, day so fair ! This genial air, 
Though mild, the earlier frosts portends, 
And the bland sky, with prophecy 
Of coming change, above us bends. 

But what care we that this may be? 
We breathe today Lethean balm ! 
The selfish fret of vain regret 
We drift above in this sweet calm. 

Ours is the glow, the pomp and show 
Of autumn on the wooded shore, 
And the content of moments spent 
With nature, and we ask no more. 



S3 



WHEN LOCUSTS SING 

When locusts sing, ah, well I know 
That summer days are past their prime; 
Then languid brooks slip soft and slow 
By banks shorn of their fragrant thyme ; 
Then dalliant winds no longer bring 
Sweet clover scents from dew-moist dells ; 
And faint and far ring tiny knells, 
When locusts sing. 

When locusts sing, the generous corn 
Stands yellowing down its rustling rows; 
Then cooler breezes woo the morn, 
And crickets hymn the twilight's close, 
Where russet boughs deep shadows fling 
On the soft grass; and pensive sighs 
From Beauty's fading lips arise 
When locusts sing. 

When locusts sing, it e'er must seem 
To me that of the whole glad year 
The best is gone; tho' fields still gleam 
Rich-crowned with goodly harvest cheer, 
In which the sickles soon shall ring, — 
But oh ! for vague, sweet hopes that sprang 
In all our hearts when May bells rang, — 
When locusts sing! 

54 



A MEMORY 

O for the brave young hours of morn 

When the lark went up the sky, 
When the bright dew dripped from the fragrant 
thorn, 

And the dreams of youth went by. 

O when the Dawn lay her blushing cheek 
On the palpitant bosom of "Clew," 

When the day crept out of the darkness bleak 
With a gladness ever new. 

Whispering, whispering everywhere, 
Went the breath of riotous June ; 

And never the earth seemed half so fair, 
Nor the birds in such exquisite tune. 

Ah, oft those days come back to me 

Across the tide of the years— 
The moaning plaint of the old sad sea, 

And the dreams that were drowned in tears. 



55 



A MEMORY 

Ever the waters of old Clew Bay 

Pound their ceaseless rote on the shore, 

But the dreams that were ours in that far-off day, 
Shall come to us nevermore. 



56 



LITTLE GIRL 

Little girl, little girl ! 

How I'd like to, — if I could, — 

Give back the happy mornings that you knew, 

When the bluebird came again, 

And the robin's fluted strain 
Went o'er the lawn all bright with sparkling dew. 

Little girl, little girl ! 

Yes; I know those heartaches well, 

And the homesickness you say still hurts you so ; 

And I know what you would give 

From your heart if you could live 
Just one summer in that dear old long ago. 

Little girl, little girl ! 

But my heart is aching too, 

With the longing for those other, happier days, 

When we wandered hand in hand 

Up and down the morning land, 
And love's golden mist swam through the wind- 
ing ways. 

57 



LITTLE GIRL 

Little girl, little girl ! 
Though our gods are mostly dust, 
And our hopes have never blossomed as they 
should, 

We shall yet be glad and smile 

In the pleasant afterwhile; 
And I'd just make you believe it — if I could 1 



58 



MY CHUM 

When shall I meet my little chum 
After these mortals lips be dumb, 
And nevermore on earth for me 
Shall sound the murmur of the bee? 

Will it be soon? or must I wait 
Long years beside some mystic gate 
That opes on amaranthine bowers, 
And count the slowly moving hours, 
Whose white sands seem eternity, 
And hold my little chum from me? 

And when he comes, O, shall I see 
His face alight with love for me; 
The old glad look, the shining eyes, 
The smile that never wore disguise ;- 
In that one day that still must come, 
How shall I meet my little chum? 



59 



MY CHUM 

Maybe the intervening years 
Will furrow his dear face with tears, 
Or, sadder still, sin's evil trace 
May mar the sweetness of his face. 

My fond heart could condone for sin; 

And tears? I have been steeped therein! 

But ah, the sadness that were mine 

If I should miss his eyes' glad shine, 

And know that all eternity 

Lay 'twixt my little chum and me! 



60 



AN INSCRIPTION 

To Judge Smith 

Beneath our northern pines tonight 
The winter's snow lies deep and white, 
Nor whispering pine nor shrouding snow 
Tells of the subtle life below, — 
Whether the germ of sleeping flowers 
Shall wake to life in April showers, 
Or whether all is dumb and dead 
As seem the lifeless twigs o'erhead. 

But sitting in our log-fire's glow 

We hear the blatant North wind blow; 

While Lady Nicotina's hand 

Evokes, with gently-waving wand, 

From howling blast and ruddy blaze, 

The shine and song of summer days. 

And one, unseen, sits at our fire, 
Thrilling our souls with his sweet lyre 

61 



AN INSCRIPTION 

Tuned to the song of birds and bees 
And nature's subtlest harmonies. 
So now to him we lift our glass, 
And while the glorious moments pass, 
We drink to Matthews* — wizard blest 
Who bides with us a welcome guest. 

* Matthews' "The Lute of Life." 



62 



REMISSNESS 

I ought to chide you, little one, — 
I know the others would, — 

For all the naughty things you've done; 
Perhaps / really should. 

But oh, you look so sorry now 

Through brown eyes filled with tears, 

That I can only let you go 

With loving words. The years 

Have shown me oft your gratitude 

Has never reached to me, 
But if you only would be good, 

I might forget, you see. 

I must forgive you once again 
For all your naughty deeds, 

Nor bare to you my heart's keen pain — 
The heart that for you pleads — 



63 



REMISSNESS 

I fear for other years that may 

Bring bitter fruit to you 
For thoughtless deeds you think as play, 

That no tears can undo. 

And other friends may not, like me, 

Your wilfulness condone, 
And mend the playthings tearfully, 

You've broken, little one. 



6 4 



SONG 

When the sparrows are southward flying, 

And dead lie the beautiful flowers, 

The best of the summer-time, darling, 

Still lives in these hearts of ours; 

The winter may shroud the white daisies, 

And hush the wee wood minstrel's lay, 

But the song and the sweet bloom of summer, 

In loving hearts live for aye. 

When the winter of age steals upon us, 

And powders our locks with its snow ; 

When our eyes are so dim, and our footsteps 

Together grow feeble and slow; 

When the sparrows are southward flying 

And dead lie the beautiful flowers, 

Still the best of the summer-time, darling, 

Shall bide in these hearts of ours. 



6s 



THREE SCORE 

Above the drowsy hum of bees 
That rove amid the garden's bloom, 
A pure young voice comes on the breeze 
As glad and sweet as if no gloom 
Bent o'er the dreary world today; 
And listening to the quaint old lay — 
A melody my childhood knew — 
I half forget that I am gray, 
And softly hum the measures through. 

Oh, it does seem so long since then — 
Since like this artless child I sang; 
And threescore cannot sing as ten, 
For silvery bells which sweetly rang 
For joyous youth are silent now, 
So if I sing it must be low; 
But oh, how gladly would I fling 
Aside the spoil of years to go 
And with this careless urchin sing ! 



66 



IN MEMORIAM 

Did you ever know what it meant to me, 

( In truth you never knew 1 ) 
When you laid your yielding hand in mine, 

And the sweetness thrilled me through and 
through ? 
You never knew what it meant to me, 

It meant so little to you. 

You never knew what it meant to me, 

(I'm sure you could not know!) 
The burning thrills your nearness gave, 

And the fateful beauty that thralled me so, 
The hand that held me in patient leash, 

Restraining my blood's hot flow. 

You never will know what it meant to me 

(And I know you will not care!) 
To hold in my heart through all these years 

A hope that was masterful, strong, and fair, 
A hope that led me for your dear sake 

All things to do and dare. 

67 



IN MEMORIAM 

But I know today what it means to me — 

(And you might see 'tis true!) 
A shrine dismantled, a prayer unsaid, 

And some one lying dead that you knew — 
But the heart still beats, and the sad lips smile, 

So what does it matter to you? 



68 



ON A MOUNTAIN TOP 

Once more I stand here, and alone ! 

Life has no more sad lessons I can learn! 
Love has forsaken me and flown 

To other climes ; and whereso'er I turn, 
Old days, old scenes, old memories, arise. 

A ne'er-forgotten face looks up to mine 
Through the bright witchery of glorious eyes, 

Each feature with love's radiant light a-shine. 
Now vanish, like a mist-cloud on thy face, 

All these; and what is left to me? 
The barren solitude in this high place, 

And sounds of harsh winds' revelry. 



69 



A CHRISTMAS GREETING 

To L. D. M. 

On this sweet Christmas tide that rolls 
Blithely toward the glad New Year, 
I launch this little "Chip" and trust 
That it may come to you, my dear, 
On braided waters singing low 
Through sober woodlands' quiet ways, 
Or through broad meadows loitering, 
Where diamonds of the hoar-frost blaze; 
And this I pray : That in some nook 
Where you await beside the stream, 
You may arrest my little bark, 
And weave its message in your dream. 



70 



"LITTLE FROWSY" 

"Little Frowsy," "Little Frowsy," do you ever 

think of me 
When the sober shades of evening gather softly 

o'er the lea, 
Or when frosty starlight glitters on the dear 

familiar way 
Where we learned life's sweetest lesson in the 

wagon or the sleigh? 

Dear "Old Nell" she must have blundered on 

our secret so discreet, 
I can almost see her loitering on with dilatory 

feet, 
As I think of those dear evenings in the happy 

long ago, 
When you were my little sweetheart, and I was 

your only beau. 

Then those evenings in the firelight in your cosy 
little room, 

With the log-fire's rosy fingers twinkling in the 
pleasant gloom ! 

What dear dreams we built together in the blaz- 
ing logs' bright glow 

As we sat in that old armchair in the evenings 
long ago. 

71 



"LITTLE FROWSY" 

Oh, that armchair, — all now left me from the 
real of other days, 

Here ensconced in my lone parlor oft it meets my 
tearful gaze; 

In its faded depths a vision gladdens oft my lov- 
ing eye 

That nor potentates nor princes with their glitter- 
ing gold could buy. 

And I see warm, nut-brown tresses in that old 

armchair tonight, 
And the dreamy eyes' dark splendor with love's 

message all a-light, 
And I see the saucy lips, dear, coaxingly upturned 

to mine, 
Velvet cheeks, and chin's soft curving, and the 

shoulders' satin shine. 

And I question whether heaven could give me 

one half the bliss 
That I tasted in that armchair in the rapture of 

your kiss; 
And I know no sweeter music ever thrilled a 

mortal ear 
Than your low voice softly murmuring to my 

quest — "I love you, dear." 
72 



"LITTLE FROWSY" 

"Little Frowsy," "Little Frowsy," will you some- 
times think of me 

When the quiet twilight shadows steal across the 
sleeping lea, 

And half wish for the old armchair and your 
dear accustomed place 

Close beside me in the firelight, with my kisses 
on your face? 



73 



THE LOST CHORD 

Oh, troubadour, sweet troubadour, 
Strike your harpstrings once again, 
And woo my mind from dulling care, 
My weary heart from all its pain. 
Sweep softly the responsive strings, 
And sing the songs of bygone days, 
When hearts were true, and love was more 
Than a mere theme for minstrel's lays. 

Oh, troubadour, your tuneful art 
Thrills with the olden time delight; 
The harmonies your fingers wake 
Suit well my wayward mood tonight; 
But there is one sweet chord I miss, 
And with it summer warmth and shine, 
The singing brook and sighing breeze, 
And happy hours no longer mine. 

But not for this, dear troubadour, 

Would I your soulful music still; 

No hand can find the missing chord 

However strong be the sweet will. 

So I will teach my eager ear 

Its wondrous sweetness to forget, 

And praise your strains with grateful smile, 

Though with sad tears my eyes be wet. 

74 



A SUMMER'S DAY 

Have you caught the lilt of a summer's day — 
The mingled voices of wild, glad things, 

The shimmer of heat on the dusty way, 

And the palpitant murmur of agile wings? 

And could you lie on this bank with me, 
Your face upturned to the ambient sky, 

And joy in the hum of the vagrant bee, 

While Care and his grovelling horde go by? 

And could you hear, with your soul unstirred, 
The call of Fame in the populous town, 

Content alone with the voice of bird, 

And scent of fields on the faint winds blown? 

Then bide a bit while the heart is young, — 
And 'tis still an easy thing to love, — 

Where the woodlands whisper the songs unsung, 
And the skies of summer are bright above. 



75 



A SUMMER'S DAY 

O, there's trouble enough on the way ahead, 
And the steppes of winter are cold and wide; 

Then let us here, ere the day is dead, 

Drink deep of the summer's golden tide. 



76 



WRITTEN ON A PHOTOGRAPH 

To G. E. R. 

O, dear old friend so debonair, 

So gallant and so knightly, 
Not one of all our favored band 

Has time's hand touched so lightly ! 
Gay-hearted as a schoolboy yet, 

Life's petty worries scorning, 
Your optimistic eyes but see 

The joy of each new morning. 



77 



IN A FRIEND'S ALBUM 

Blest be the wit, methinks, that grinds 

A joke from melancholy, 
And with a pleasant sally binds 

The wounds of some old folly; 
And would the gods, whose meager wit 

Was idly set to plan us, 
Had oftener made a lucky hit, 

And given us more McManus. 



THE WAY OF IT 

Oft when I was a little boy 

I gazed upon the sea, 
And thought each snowy sail might bear 

Some precious gift for me. 

I thought the Isles of Ceylon fair 
Might pour their treasures out — 

Rich gems and such a host of things, 
At which a boy would shout. 

Then there were caves I'd read about 

In far-off sunny isles 
Just bursting with the very things 

To fill a boy with smiles. 

And some good Genii sure must know 

The longing of a boy, 
And one day send a ship to me 

To fill my heart with joy. 



79 



THE WAY OF IT 

But shining sails went on and on, 
And days slipped into years, 

And all my ships have brought to me 
Has been the freight of tears. 



So 



NOON IN A MEADOW 

The full noon swings his censer high, 

The roving wind is still, 
Only the bee goes booming by 

On his way to the scented hill. 

Drowsy the note of katydids 

In the meadow's fragrant deeps; 

The orchid droops her fringed lids 
And 'mid soft grasses sleeps. 

No voice of bird thrills the white noon, 
The shallowing brook alone 

Sings with the katydids its rune 
In pensive undertone. 

Lush grasses, tangled meadow-sweet, 

And purple vetches, hold 
In mesh the languor of the heat, 

And the sun-god's shafts of gold. 



81 



NOON IN A MEADOW 

And round all swings an atmosphere 
Pregnant with drowsy dreams; 

Time's foot-steps fall unnoticed here, 
And all eternal seems. 



82 



DRIFTING 

Slowly down with the lapsing stream 
My wee boat moves like one in dream, 
And the snowy water-lilies gleam 
In the rippling wake she leaves. 

The sun is low in the crimsoning sky, 
And fleet-winged swallows homeward fly 
Across the lea, where shadows lie 
On beds of fragrant flowers. 

The thrushes' evening song I hear 
In fringing hazel copses near, 
And children's voices sweet and clear 
Float down from pleasant farms. 

And drifting, dreaming in my boat 
Of you in some vague land remote, 
Child, stream, and thrush, in blended note, 
Seem singing, dear, of you. 

83 



DRIFTING 

Would I might send my pleading prayer 
To you on wings of this sweet air, 
And know at last that you still care 
As in the vanished days. 

Then I might drift in falling dew, 
Ere darkness blinds us, unto you, 
And find you tender still and true, 
And hold you to my heart. 



8 4 



A MEMORY 

Only a bunch of wee wild flowers, — 
Buttercups golden, forget-me-nots blue, 
Just drooping for want of the wind's soft touch, 
And the wonted kiss of the loving dew. 

No other can see in these common flowers 
The matchless beauty they hold for me; 
For none save eyes unsealed as mine, 
The dear significance e'er could see. 

No eyes save mine can see the face, 
So fair and sweet 'neath the sunny hair, 
That smiled all day o'er the blue and gold 
Of the flowers I hold with such tender care. 

O, flowers will fade, and eyes grow dim, 
But memory still is sweet and dear; 
And life can never be long enough 
To lose the love of our Golden Year. 



85 



TO A DANDELION FOUND IN 
NOVEMBER 

Oh, little blossom smiling here, 
How can you look so jolly, 

When rustle 'round you leaflets sere. 
And all is melancholy? 

The summer's gone this many a day; 

The golden-rod's gaunt shadow 
Falls drearily across the way; 

And in the browning meadow 

The withered gentian in its nook 
In every rude gust shivers; 

The naked aster by the brook 
With apprehension quivers; 

Yet here you lift your sunny face 

Amid the lifeless grasses, 
And smile when at a furious pace 

The reckless North Wind passes. 



86 



TO A DANDELION 

Ah, little flower, you are too brave ! 

The North wind is no lover; 
And Winter is a surly knave 

That just delights to cover 

Such things as you with snow knee-deep 

Without a bit of warning; 
You'd better lie right down to sleep, 

And wake some warm spring morning. 



87 



"A WRITTEN APOLOGY" 

To Miss Hale 

If you can catch the lilt of the pleasant autumn 
days 
When the crimson leaf vies with the mellow 
gold, 
If you can paint the glory of the woodland's 
winding ways, 
Then half my meek apology is told. 

If you can hear the echo, from across the placid 
lake, 
Of the clear soprano of your happy boy, 
When his heart's so full of gladness that it seems 
as if 'twould break 
If he didn't throw the woods his lyric joy; 

If you can only picture many a mossy little nook 
With the forest leaves a-drifting all around, 

Just like the things you read of in some dreamy 
little book, 
And all the air just listening for a sound; 

88 



"A WRITTEN APOLOGY" 

If you can hear the patter of the rainfall on the 

roof, — 

The nimble fingers drumming soft and low 

The harmonies that mingle in life's subtle warp 

and woof, 

And bring us back the days of long ago — 

But what's the use of hedging? I know you 
understand 
The lure that made us old chums break the 
rule, 
And soak our souls in gladness poured from 
nature's lavish hand, 
And that's why we played "hooky" from your 
school. 



8 9 



DEC 18 1913 



iffiilir 

"015 926 fidi 2 



